


King and Thief

by Measured_Words



Category: The Oak King - Josh Ritter (Song), The Oak Tree King - Josh Ritter (Song)
Genre: F/M, Fae & Fairies, Fae nonsense, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-23
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:42:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24330769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/pseuds/Measured_Words
Summary: A thief spends one night in the Oak King's grove.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6
Collections: Jukebox 2020





	King and Thief

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



> Happy Jukebox - I hope you enjoy this treat, and thank you for introducing me to this song!

Into the dark woods he fled, certain of his pursuit. He pushed through the thicket, praying it would close behind him and erase his passage. In his hands, he clutched his prize, holding its bag close against his body. Before, he'd felt desperation, and now fear joined it, along with other emotions he could or dared not name. The shouts from the road fell behind, the forest dampening the baying of hounds. He spilled forward into something like a clearing – no sunny glade, rather light eclipsed and life stifled by the crown of a great oak tree.

The woods grew close around the shadow of the oak, pressing up against it without intruding into its domain. The floor was carpeted with fallen acorns, and their crunching beneath his feet and his own heaving breath were the only sounds that reached his ears.

He meant only to rest for a moment, but exertion and excitement had worn him more thoroughly than he knew. He dreamed of feasts in golden palaces, fine silks and beautiful faces with stern smiles. It was night, but stars and moon eschewed this place as thoroughly as the sun. At first, he thought himself struck blind, whether in justice for his crimes, or for staring too closely at the forbidden opulence of his dream. He knew not all sense had abandoned him, as he could hear faint susurrations at the edge of the stillness. 

Scrambling against the ground to recover his treasure, his fingers clenched at mulch and hummus as he searched, until they gripped something more solid – an acorn. Its recognizable shape, with its cap and smooth hard shell, calmed his panic. He found the bag shortly thereafter, and slipped the nut inside to mingle with its precious contents.

He groped his way along the oak's branches to the edge of its domain, and as he passed beyond the reach of its crown, the moon broke through the clouds to illuminate a trail. Its light danced across the ground, the heavy breeze causing the leaves of lesser plants to wave and flash in the light as if they were dancing. He passed with more care through the night. By the time he'd made it to the edge of the wood and more familiar grounds, the clouds had returned in force, the wind grown in strength, and cold drops of rain assailed him.

He made it to home and its relative safety, but was soaked through to his skin. He sat shivering by the hearth for a time before he recovered strength and nerves, and by then it had turned so late as to be early. He crept into the bedroom quietly so he would not wake his lady, stripping his wet clothing and stretching out beside her. Nestling the bag between the pillows for safekeeping, he closed his eyes to catch more rest.

The dark clouds obscured the morning light, and it was the sound of the couple's lone cow lowing to be milked that roused him and his lady when the rain finally broke. He sat up, instinct guiding him towards habits of the homestead, and did not notice her shocked expression until she gasped aloud.

"You live!"

He turned and smiled, taking her hands in his to comfort her, the animal forgotten. "Did I not swear I would recover your heirloom, my love?"

"You were gone so long – I thought you slain, or seized by the king's men and dragged to some anonymous gallows…"

Seeking to reassure her active imagination, he shook his head. "I was gone but a night, though it was a harrowing one."

"My dear," she whispered, her pale face growing paler, "it was full seven days - a week."

"How can that be?" 

She was not jesting, and so he recounted his adventure – how he had stalled the excisemen's carriage, startling the horses to distract the guards. How he had acted with stealth and boldness to scatter their gains and reclaim her heirloom – the braided golden torque that marked a prestige passed many generations since. How he had fled the search by guards and dogs and passed some hours in the dark wood and dreamt strange dreams beneath its ancient oak. How he had returned in the early hours and sought not to disturb her.

"You slept in the Oak King's woods," she said, once he had completed his tale. "For seven days, you walked his halls and feasted at his banquets, and so a ghost is returned to me." She held a hand to his face. "You are grown so thin, and your lips are stained with the dark cold earth that sustains only him."

"You speak old nonsense," he proclaimed, though an unbidden chill pierced deeply into his heart. "Perhaps I lost track of time, in my fear. It's all become a blur – but look and see, for I have kept my word." He pressed the cloth sack to her hands, seeking to reassure her. He remembered the acorn only as it tumbled onto the bed between them, landing between the arms of the torque.

His wife looked up, her shock deepened. "Oh, my love," she whispered, leaning into his arms. In his ears, the words rang of relief rather than despair, and he gathered her close.

Some nine months later she took to the birthing bed to bear a son, and did not leave it. He found among her things an acorn, and some impulse seized it to plant it over her grave.

Tree and son both grew strong for the next seven years, as the Oak King's forest crept closer to the garden gate. The son passed among all his mother's people, who granted their care and stories in her place. The father struggled to keep the wildness at bay – to tend his fields and farmstead.

In the spring of the seventh year, the old cow's milk went sour.

In the summer, the rains fell and fell, and crops drowned and rotted in their fields.

In the autumn the young oak lost its leaves too soon, turning a blighted brown, then black, before they fell.

In the winter the son grew ill – pale and shaking, wracked with a rasping cough that no broth or warm poultice could alleviate. His aunts frowned and shook their heads, thinking of their sister, and the blighted tree that marked her grave.

The father gathered his courage, his few coins, and his wife's golden torque, thinking of the city doctors. But the city lay beyond the wood, and dreams and fears from long ago haunted his thoughts. He, too, thought of the planted tree, whose leaves had danced in the moonlight. With heavy heart he gathered his child and rode.


End file.
